Logic vs Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Stuff
by GeneralvonManiac
Summary: "I'm interrogating you. Shut up. Now, why have you got a tally on your arm?" That cut the 'Doctor off any giddy rambles. Very abruptly. Curiously abruptly. But Sherlock suddenly noticed the knife in his own hands. The Doctor gulped. "Sherlock, we need to turn around."
1. Chapter 1

"You're lying to me."  
"I am not! We have already done Mars!"

The Doctor straightened his bow tie, too happy to be annoyed. He hooked a thumb around each of his braces and tried to figure out where he had left his latest fez. River hadn't been around to steal it. She'd gained quite a collected of them, all riddled with bullet holes. But he did like a fez.

He had not seen River in a month, but according to that little blue diary she had seen him just two days ago. He was spoiling her. He wandered over to his machine, lazily flicking switches. Operating it had become second nature to him; however hit-and-miss he had become at it. 'Sexy' didn't seem to mind, she normally overrided any error in command and generally understood where he was aiming to go. Well, apart from putting the brakes off.

Hang on, something he was forgetting. Rory.

"We most certainly have not 'done' Mars! Is this about me being dead?"

"Doctor it has been over a year. It was a good idea but I assure you, everyone is well aware that you are NOT. DEAD. And yes, yes we have Doctor. What was it, the Wigglewams? And you went swimming and we couldn't find you for two hours. I remember! Where's Amy…"

The Doctor rolled his eyes and turned the wheel sharply.

"Don't be stupid Rory!"

The all familiar creak of a lever being pushed upwards, followed by the all familiar procession of bright lights. And then the all familiar childishly defiant sound of landing with the brakes still on.

"The Wigglewams are a mountain range, not a people."

"Doctor-"

"Oh look, we're here. Have to discuss it later won't we? What a shame."

Striding happily towards the door, willfully ignorant of the exasperated man following. When Rory threatens to involve his wife, he half considers threatening to involve his. Thankfully, the Doctor is almost entirely confident that _this time_ everything about the trip is going to go to plan. On holiday with the in-laws and the wife. Nope, still weird to say. On holiday with his best friends and his murderer. Much better.

No time-head babies, no plague, no vampires, no Romans, no Flesh, no Silence, no Cybermen, No Daleks, no…

"River, three minutes!"

He shouts this merrily, sticking his head out of the door, grinning widely.

… Weeping Angels, no Slitheen, no giant wasps, no police, no moon, no library…

"I can do in two! One for you, sweetie!"

The breathy reply.

He rubs his hands together with glee, like a ten year old, and grips Rory in a fierce hug.

"This will be fantastic!" he says much too loudly, hurting Rory's ears.

... And the psychopath who killed you is very unlikely to do it again, thank god. Other people, probably. But not you. Stick to the plan. The plan will work. IT WILL WORK.

The guard standing beside River's cell holds up a hand in surrender at once and opens the door. He muses briefly upon bringing a long a white handkerchief to work from now on, purely for the aesthetic appeal of being able to give up all fight eloquently. He's quite young, and clearly trying to swap careers.

He has been working here long enough to know it is pointless and has suffered enough head injuries to know not to try anyway.

The doctor retreats, sharing a wink with the woman walking slowly ("I do love annoying the staff") towards him.

Exactly.

To.

Plan.

Until, an unwanted noise:

"Doctor, we have done Mars. Amy, tell him."

"Not now, I haven't even had tea!"

This argument between her son-in-law (nope, still weird) and her husband has been going on for days and she'd been pretty successful at avoiding getting involved. She, of course, knew the answer. She, of course, had no intention of telling them.

"Let's go to London, 2012 Olympics? Can check on the house." Amy suggests, planting a kiss on Rory's cheek and hugging her daughter. That was less weird, now.

"Can't_. I've_ done that. I'll be there. And Mars is so much more fun. So we all agree Mars then? Terrific. Stick to the plan. Don't deviate from the plan. Sound advice. River, the thrusters if you will?"

"You did the bit before the Olympics, not during. But Mars could be nice." Amy admits, watching the Doctor carefuly, "Be a fun experience for the baby to have. _Oh wait…_"

She looks from the Doctor to River meaningfully.

A pause.

The Doctor claps his hands together and spins around on the spot, ending up pointing with one hand at his mother-in-law (nope, still weird to say) and the other at his wife (still weird but definitely less).

"You heard your mother! New plan. London 2012 sometime prior to the Olympics! Terrific. Stick to the plan. Don't deviate from the plan. River, enter the new location if you will?"

Spins and points at Rory, "This does not mean we have done Mars!"

Shuffling over to and hi-fiving Amy, Rory whispers, "As your husband, I should tell you that you really need to stop using that to manipulate people. As a time travelling companion, I say keep doing it until it doesn't work anymore. And then some more."

River sidles over, evidently haven given up with trying to teach the Doctor, once more, to fly the Tardis in a remotely professional manner. She is dressed in khaki, having returned from an archaeological dig. Has she ever worn the prison uniform? Her description of prison as 'a hotel where you can't leave by the front door' seems true enough. Well you probably could, she had added, but it was such a long set of stairs she could never be bothered finding out.

"Amy, did we actually go to Mars?" Rory asks, suddenly doubtful.

"Can't remember for the life of me." She sighs.

The laugh hitches in River's throat, and Rory has an unusual look. It was dawning realisation. That was a rare one. The girl who could remember the Doctor couldn't remember Mars? What? Amy must distract him quickly, or the fun will be ruined.

"How about that tea then?" she smiles, grabbing his arm and wheeling him in the direction of what was definitely either the kitchen or the bouncy castle.

Why a bouncy castle?

They were cool.

The Tardis was certainly nice, if a bit… well, 'spacey'. In the solar system sense. At least that meant the kitchen was always up-to-date. Or kitchens, plural. Though this one may as well have been the only one, the others were lost in the archive somewhere. So whilst they still technically existed, she had little interest in ever trying to find them. Maybe River could make an archaeology related adventure out of it.

You could get lost in these rooms; forget you were even in a Tardis, hurtling itself forwards and backwards through space and time were it not for the ever present whir of fantastical machinery in the background. There was a trap door in the kitchen. But other than that it was almost Earthly.

Why the trap door? They had all asked it at some point. The question probably all the way back to the first companions.

"_Emergencies."_

"_What kinds of emergencies?"_

"_Loads."_

There had been many emergencies since they had asked those questions. The trap door had been used once, and even then it was by accident.

And every single bedroom had a default of bunk-beds which could only be changed by request. And, due to a bug in the system, they had discovered changing from bunk-beds to anything else clogged up the plumbing for days and shortened the supply of hot water for about a month.

But still.

Bunk-beds were cool.

This bug was an improvement, according to the Doctor. Before it had just meant that he could never find the kettle for a few days. Amy recalls the incredulous look she had given him mirrored in Rory's face.

They had tried to convince him to change it back to the kettle absence, but he had only become upset and yelled "But what about the tea?"

River ran a hand through her frizzy curls. Was there even a trace of Amy and Rory's genetics left in her?

"I smell like a prison. Time for a shower, or else I'll be terribly self-conscious in London. Like I'm on the run or something."

Neither of the two bothered to address the irony in that sentence as they were walking in the general direction of fried food.

"If we land in the meantime and sweetie takes a huff, send him in."

Rory and Amy's head snapped round to look at her, moderately shocked. Moderately.

River winked, and walked off.

"Where did we go wrong, exactly?" Rory mutters, though in good humour.

"Somewhere before she stole that bus, probably." Amy replies, smiling.

They were not entirely convinced of the Doctor's confidence that this trip would go to plan, but it was difficult not to get caught up in his joy. For the first time in what felt like a five hundred years, no one was chasing him. Yet.

* * *

"There is a police box in the middle of the street."

"Yes?"

"It wasn't there yesterday."

Sherlock is staring out of the window, eyes on a fixed point. Presumably said Police Box.

John wasn't really listening. Not really. He was reading a newspaper, sitting in one of the many uniform plastic chairs which were seemingly characteristic of all staff rooms. Some television presenter was revisiting the Leadworth crop circle. 'Vandalism or a Message?' was the headline. They were making a documentary.

"Vandalism." Sherlock had stated.

It was his habit to flick through newspapers now, commenting on each article as he went. This meant either sardonic remarks or very sardonic remarks about everything from murders to celebrity break-ups. But it was at least getting him some contact with the outside world.

"It has to have been, police boxes went out of use decades ago."

When Sherlock's fists slammed down on either side of the table, the anger behind the force was so great that his empty coffee mug jumped two centimetres to the right. The detective had a crazed look in his face, similar to after seeing the Hound. This earned John's attention and he slowly lowered the newspaper, keeping eye contact all the while.

"Yes. Decades. So why is there one here today? We were here yesterday, I considerably longer than you, so it must have been built in the dead of night. Why?"

John blinks.

"You don't think… that's not to do with the case is it?"

"The case? Security compromised increasingly over a week period, unable to explain why. Security staff forgetting large chunks of the day – forgetting how they managed to unlock doors, leave windows open, forgetting to report break-ins, forgetting break-ins _happened,_"

Fists slam down again for effect,

"Forgetting why they fired bullets. A few security guards, you suspect them. Ten, twenty, suspect them. Nearing on two hundred?"

Sherlock's face is inches away from John's. He's angry, but the thrill of the puzzle does not escape him still. He can see the deadly glint in his eyes.

"189 separate, unrelated, security guards telling the same stories – most of whom who have never even met each other. You can't suspect them all. And now we've,"

Spinning and lunging, he thumps his fist against the window. No food for three days, running purely on adrenaline.

"Forgotten a fucking Police Box. Yes. That has to do with the case. Have Anderson check the cameras – find out when it was built, if it was here yesterday – and get Lestrade down to it. I'll meet you there."

And then he was gone.

John sighed. A Police Box?

Lestrade asked the same.

Never been wrong before, he'd sighed.

The reply to that had also been a sigh, but it was in agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

Right.

Ok.

Right.

The position of the Police Box was a little odd. Almost as odd as it's sudden appearance. And it _was_ sudden, apparently. No one could remember it being here before. So Sherlock might have been right about that. But there's no way it could have been relevant. It was a disused Police Box. Still, he had thought that about the missing rabbit…

They had been called in for the security breaches, the sheer vastness and… weirdness… of them. A mystery. Sherlock loved a mystery. So close to the Olympics, it had to be terrorism. Some sort of plot, some sort of bomb. Something.

They had thought that anyway, the police.

But a terrorist cell involving 189 unlinked security guards? Impossible. The security guards couldn't have been in on it. And besides most terrorist groups – for all their boasts and threats – were lucky if they had over 100 actual members, so their only options were to work together which increased the risk of being caught. And for the most part, they just couldn't compete with the sharpening security checks – they were wholly incompetent for the most part, relatively easy to catch out now. But it was very much certain that someone wanted to gain access, to do something. Access to what? Do what?

John didn't know who did it. And this frustrated him.

Sherlock didn't know who did it. And this excited him.

The latest incident had happened at a shopping centre, a big one. It was different though, this time, one of the security guards had been killed. A bullet through his thigh. Young guy, young family. Bit of a space enthusiast, if there was ever such a thing. Watched the footage of the moon landing a lot, according to his wife.

It was a sad affair. But it caused Sherlock to take an interest, at least. Just say 'suspicious dead body' and Sherlock would go there at once.

But they hadn't got the information that they'd wanted from this one, not yet. Sherlock knew, Sherlock 'observed'. At all the other scenes, in all the other incidents, they had taken their time and cleaned up after themselves as thoroughly as they could (not 'Sherlock' thoroughly) and they had taken their time. This exit was rushed, manic, panicked, messy. They didn't get what they were after. And for two nights they'd stuck it out in the food court (Sherlock's insistence) and seen nothing, only going home last night to get some rest (John) and study the properties of Adder venom (Sherlock).

John had grown accustomed to ignoring the severed feet which had taken up residence in the fridge for several weeks now, and the frozen mice. He wasn't that keen on the new pet though, which Sherlock had affectionately named 'Bastard', after what John exclaimed every time she attempted to strike him. Still, anything was better than the escaped stick insect newborns, the corpses of which he was still finding between the keys of his laptop.

Needless to say, there was a section on his blog entirely devoted to 'flatmate problems'.

Anyway, even then they'd been back early, and the place was still literally crawling with Lestrade's men. Someone should have noticed a massive blue box showing up.

The food-court was located at the back of the building, taking up the majority of the second floor. They'd chosen to stay in the staff room, handily connected to both the wide expanse of the food-court and the central security room. Oh yes, another thing – cameras hadn't been working after the incident. Power surge or something, Anderson had fixed one.

He'd clearly been looking for Sherlock's thanks, with a smug self-satisfied smirk on his face. When Sherlock had greeted the news simply with "Just the one? You really are a useless one, aren't you?" the smile had plunged from his face so quickly that it sent John into barely concealed fits of laughter. Even the memory of it brought a giggle.

The staff room had three windows, at the right hand side as you entered through the double doors. They overlooked the empty car park and the skips, from an angle you couldn't see from any other point. Also useful. And the Police Box was tucked in a small corner, narrowly avoiding intruding on a parking space.

They were staring at it now.

Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Holmes, Watson, as well as various other police officers who neither John nor Sherlock knew the names of. Well Sherlock had known, but simply deleted them. And due to Donovan and Anderson's open dislike of him, John could only deduce that their sole reason for being at this exact spot with him was to mock him, as they clearly perceived him as being wrong. If even John had noticed this, Sherlock obviously had too. But he gave no indication he cared.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Look, we've just over-looked it Sherlock. Maybe you'd better get some rest-"

"Would you park your car here, in this space, next to the Box, with less than two feet's space to open the door? It is very unlikely they would not put the space here, if the Police Box predates the car park. It is unlikely but still much more likely than the first scenario that they would build a Police Box here and intrude upon the parking space. However as this carpark was built in 1995 why would anyone find a Police Box useful to build here post that date?"

"I'd park my car here."

"Oh yes, I am well aware _you_ would Donovan but I'm choosing to consult someone who passed their test the first time around and didn't narrowly avoid rear ending a lamppost _last night_!"

This was all said without taking his eyes away from the Police Box. He made to press his ear against it, to hear if anything was inside.

And whatever her retort to this was, it was drowned out by the sudden slamming open of a door so ferociously the hinges strained. If he hadn't leapt back John was certain the frame would have taken off Sherlock's head.

A young-ish man was standing in the door way. His hair was styled in such a way as to be trendy, yet the tweed jacket, bowtie and what looked to John to be Tommy Cooper's hat had the effect of making him look like a slightly mad professor. He was smiling, or had been. Upon seeing a fairly intimidating set of police uniforms gathered around him and a tall thin man analysing his face this smile had speedily dropped to a look composed more of exasperated disbelief than fear. In less than a Sherlockian blink, arms and legs were spread wide enough to conceal the interior. Two heads, almost comically, appeared above his shoulders, peering out. A man and a woman's, mid-twenties. They saw the sight outside and shared a 'look'.

"Guys," he muttered without taking his eyes off of the detective, "Not to act pre-emptively, but… Abort. The plan. Move. Quickly. Hello!"

As he yelled, three things seemed to happen at once. Sherlock leaned forward to peer into the box, just as the bow-tied man reached to presumably slam the door back shut, just as the two individuals and he were promptly shoved from the Police Box and onto the road by someone behind them. The door shut quickly behind the now four people with a slight click.

The bow-tied man adjusted his tweed jacket and peculiar hat.

"Ah, yes. As I was saying before I was cruelly interrupted – River, bad!" he began, pausing to wag a finger accusingly at the older woman who had joined their group, "Hello. I'm Steve. Look, I have a piece of paper which says so. See, Steve, an electrician. These are my electric… people."

The piece of paper he put forward seemed to be a type of licence, official looking. He held it up to Sherlock's face for a good length of time, before snapping it back and putting it inside his coat.

"The lettering is blurred." Sherlock swallowed. He sounded distracted, seemed to be staring straight through them to the window. Had he seen something?

John's brow furrowed.

And electric people? What…

"Course it is!" Steve clapped his hands together, "I'm a fake. We're all fakes. My name's not even Steve, it's Mark. Now if you'd just let us all step inside this police box and arrest ourselves-"

Sherlock roughly shoved him out of his path, barking orders to apprehend them for questioning. No, he was not qualified to do this. Yes, they heeded them anyway. The look on his face was too terrifying not to. What had he seen?

He began pulling at the door, a deeply unsettled look on his face replacing fear. Mutterings about it having to have funny wallpaper could be heard over Mark's (?) loud protests. Apparently this belonged to him. The large nosed man managed to get a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before being physically restrained.

"Let me go! I'm Scottish, I'll bite!" The red-head snapped, fighting against a slightly bewildered and increasingly irritated Donovan, "River do something or… Or I'll give you a row!"

The other woman, River, just looked a bit bored and smiled in response.

"You'll give her a row?" the large nosed man looked at her with exasperation, "River, listen to her or we _will_ take you to the Stormcage Containment Facility and-"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, wished for a simpler life and became very aware that he was risking yet another promotion opportunity to arrest four people for no reason other than coming out of a Police Box.

"Watson, what exactly is Sherlock trying to achieve-"

"HANG ON." Mark swung round, catching the police officer handcuffing him off-guard and losing interest in 'his' Police Box, "Sherlock? Watson?"

"Sherlock! Were you bullied?" the red head woman laughed, and then with dawning horror, "Wait, ACTUAL SHERLOCK!"

"Sherlock?" River blinked, "Amy how exactly…"

"What… Like the bloggers?" the unnamed man was less surprised than the others.

"BLOGGERS?" Mark faced him now, it was getting difficult for John to keep up, "THE John Watson and Sherlock Holmes BLOGGERS? Rory have you lost-"

"It's actually Sherlock." The woman, Amy, gasped and let out a high pitched giggle brought on by sheer panic. In John's world, this was more commonly seen in patients prior to surgery.

Marks' face was turning an interesting shade of red, he seemed to be deep in thought.

"What?" was all he managed. And then his expression lit up.

"Oh god, timey-wimey crack in the wall, Winston Churchill and Pterodactyls, the tearing of time and reality itself, the girl who remembers everything at the heart of it all. Time Vortex baby, you -" Mark pointed at Amy as best as he could in handcuffs, which involved bending his arms at an extremely uncomfortable angle, "Bring back things, bring things to life accidentally, jumble it all up. Books, you had them?"

"What?"

"A Study in Scarlet, on your wall, kid, timey wimey, wibbles… Fragments of imagination being brought into reality when there's a trauma to the time line, when all of time happens at once and your _bloody offspring_ is in the centre of it all."

Mark gasped for breath, fez askew. He had been talking solidly without pause for over a inute.

"Amy, you made Sherlock." He finished, finally, near enough collapsing.

"I _made_ SHERLOCK_!"_

__His next sentence was punctuated with sharp inhalations.

_"Ah of course! _Rory doesn't know who Sherlock is... River and I are time-lords so we... and you... your memory! Only explanation! You remembered me and Romans and boxes and..." He gestured with his head in the general direction of the detective.

"I know who Sherlock is! I follow the blog! I tried showing you last year!" Rory intervened.

Watson liked to think that the expression on the young man's face was exactly like his each time Sherlock assumed he was following his train of thought.

Watson felt a headache come on. She made… what on earth was… are they fucking ment-

"Hello!"

River was right next to him, grinning airily.

"I do want to hear about your blog, sweetie, it sounds terribly exciting!"

Hadn't she been arrest… Ah of course, she'd punched Anderson in the face. There he was. Stumbling. Wasn't entirely professional but who could blame her, at the end of the day?

John looked around. Amy was arguing with Mark, whilst Rory looked on confused. The police officers holding them looked even worse. Lestrade looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, but he was joining Sherlock – who was deftly ignoring the ensuring carnage – in trying to break the thing open.

This day was becoming a little bit difficult.

So John could only really nod and be led along back to the building, arm in arm, with a woman chattering away about someone by the name of Arthur Conan Doyle. Obscure writer, or something.


	3. Chapter 3

They'd gotten it under control eventually, and Sherlock had slapped John in the face to help with the shock. He was very helpful. More people needed to appreciate this.

Sherlock was a very good friend. Aside from the 'dying' thing.

River and John had walked a few metres in the general direction of the shopping centre before she'd elbowed him so violently in the ribs he'd collapsed, and then raced back to tackle – yes, _tackle_ - Lestrade. She was surprisingly strong, and took to physical violence in a manner and with a dedication not unlike a crazed psychopath. She seemed to relish head-butting Sherlock too much, if that were even possible.

Amy had shouted "_Get in there_!" and Rory had just muttered "Oh god, oh god why?" whilst shaking his head at the sky.

John liked Rory, he decided. If he had to compensate anyone for Sherlock's ridiculous actions (the potential list growing almost daily), he'd be first. He just looked a bit tired, bless him, clearly this had not been the day he had wanted.

Mark had got River to the ground before she could go for anyone else, though, escaping from the handcuffs worryingly quickly. He had then proceeded to sit on her, offer his wrists up for arrest, and apologize profusely to each person separately.

And with that, they were marched back to the building, leaving Lestrade and a few men to try and open the Police Box, by Sherlock's request. Sherlock wanted to question them. In the food court, there and then. He would try and talk him out of that when they got there, John decided.

Not fucking likely, Sherlock observed.

It was obvious from the moment that they stepped out of the Police Box that Rory and Amy were happily and recently married, celebrating an anniversary. Four years at the most. Obvious. Sherlock had told everyone so, as they marched them.

"Because of the wedding rings?" Anderson had commented, still trying to stem the blood flowing freely from his broken nose.

Well, he actually said "Befoz off veh weddingf ings?" but that was what he'd meant. He still managed to make it sound snarky. He did put in effort to loathe him.

"Anderson, shut up. No one cares for your input. And no, not the wedding rings. The new wedding rings, the shiny wedding rings, the modern wedding rings. The way he subconsciously reached out to support her when they were pushed outside, the way she kept glancing at him to make sure he was ok. Romantic involvement, clearly. Plus their ages, their general comfort with each other, her red and white plaid top, his haircut-"

"What's wrong with my haircut?"

"…the way they tilted towards each other as they walked…"

"Oi! We aren't an exhibit," Amy snapped, lunging slightly in a way that reminded Sherlock of Bastard.

"We have you apprehended, watch your tone or it could get worse for you," Anderson snarled at her. Or he would have, but the blood made him choke, so he just sounded a little bit ill.

He decided to focus his efforts on an exchange he stood a chance of winning, Sherlock noted. Specifically a skinny, handcuffed female being physically restrained by John.

"Agh!" Anderson screeched, _actually_ screeched, "She bit me!"

"Anderson, shut up!"

"Sorry! I slipped!" John called, holding Amy just a fraction more loosely now with the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock was marching Mark, who kept looking at him like he was in love with him and mouthing "Brilliant! You are brilliant!", asking him inane questions about all the 'amazing adventures' he'd been on and turning his head to look at Amy with an ecstatic grin plastered on his face.

"Have you done the 'Hound' yet? Oh you have, you wonderful cheeky sod, haven't you? Oh this is fantastic! You're fantastic! He's brilliant!"

Although a welcome compliment – nonsensical despite the man showing no outward signs of drug use, but sincere - it was very annoying.

River was silent. Tired from her efforts, possibly.

Rory was silent for the most part too.

He only said something once.

"Should've gone to Mars."

Sherlock disregarded that statement, for the time being. But he added that to the list of questions. It was steadily growing.

The inside of that box….

Lestrade was still trying to open the Police Box by the time they had gotten back to the staff room. Handcuffed to chairs and at a separate table – at the insistence of Anderson, who it appeared had an irrational fear of being bitten by a savage married woman – it seemed like the situation had finally calmed down somewhat.

Sherlock debated how best to approach his questions, after getting John to agree to it. He had to, he had to find out what he'd seen… It was like nothing he could ever have possibly imagined, a colossal room. Impossible, tricks of the eye – a repeat of the Hound. An object which is bigger on the inside is impossible. Sherlock had never seen anything impossible, he saw through logic and logic alone. There was – and could not be – anything else. Yet still human emotions betrayed him, and these rationalisations did little to calm him.

The first step was questioning. He'd won him over – and caused the four to become exceedingly compliant - eventually by threatening to charge them right there and then with assaulting several police officers. And Anderson.

Then Lestrade phoned.

"I've tried drilling it, hitting it with a hammer – the glass doesn't even scratch, for God's sake! Someone found an axe, the wood won't chip. We tried picking the lock, the wires melted! I even shot it-"

"You shot it?" Sherlock asked

"He shot my Tardis?" Mark bellowed, bending his head back to glare accusingly at Sherlock.

'Tardis'? Sherlock mentally added that to the list of questions.

"Only because I kicked it and have possibly broken my toe, anyway it started_ sparking_ for fuck's sake…"

"It started sparking?"

"Of _course_ she did! He shot her!" Mark retorted.

Calls box 'her'. Add to questions.

"Lestrade, get inside the box. What? Anything! I don't know, a bigger hammer! Sort it out," Sherlock hung up, flung the phone back into his pocket and marched up to River, "Ok, you first."

"Oh gladly!" River breathed, leaning forward ever so slightly, "Give it your best shot!"

She looked far too enthusiastic about this, noted Watson.

Sherlock just stared stonily, eyes calculating.

"You have a distant relationship with your parents, probably removed as a young child. Probably negligence due to your erratic behaviour. Probably spent your life in care. As such, you adopted these," gestures to Amy and Rory, "as surrogate parents. Bit weird for a middle aged woman but let's move on – you flirt excessively but not sincerely, means loyal and probably married. Ah yes, married to 'Mark', of course. It's all a bit incestuous. You've sorted yourself out. There's nothing to gain from you. Now, next."

River raised her eyebrows in mock offense, turned to Amy and said quite unabashed "All circumstances considered that was a pretty good go! You did a very good job!"

Amy nodded in agreement, unfazed.

Sherlock ignored this, Sherlock moved on.

"Obviously married couple. You lost a child shortly after birth, hence became surrogate parents to a woman you who has a good number of years on you but have known for a long time so this probably developed gradually. Again, weird, but not the weirdest. Very protective of each other, you would argue that you would risk your lives for each other. I doubt it, personally-"

Rory snorted in a way that sounded suspiciously like the word "loads".

"You live a stable existence, probably enjoy travelling. But what do you do for a living, the husband is obviously a nurse-"

"Model."

Sherlock turned to face Watson, an eyebrow raised.

"She's a model," Watson looked around awkwardly, "Seen her on… the billboards…"

"Right. Anyway, you two are no use. But you…"

Sherlock stared at Mark, dead in the eyes.

"You betray nothing. 'Mark'. You get questioned."


	4. Chapter 4

The security room was… dank. Dreary. Dreadful.

Dark.

Four cabinets guarded two green computer chairs, worn well past threadbare with use with yellow spongy foam sticking up out of the holes, which sat in front of two plastic desks, which sat in front of a row of dead screens.

Sherlock attempted to switch one of the fluorescent lights on, and it began sparking violently. It seemed that it too had fallen victim to whatever power supply cock-up was plaguing the security cameras and most of the cooking appliances since the incident. He thought nothing of it more than mild annoyance. How did electricity work anyway? He'd ask John, but after the solar system incident he thought better of it. He opted to turn a screen on instead, the static illuminated the room sufficiently.

"Why did you call me Steve?" he asked, curiously, "I told you I was Mark."

"You're neither. I prefer Steve."

"You're right. Most people call me Doctor."

"I prefer Steve."

'Steve' sat compliantly in one of the computer chairs, content with spinning around and grinning at Sherlock madly. He had taken, once more, the precaution of handcuffing the far-too-enthusiastic-about-being-questioned man but noted that this still did not make him feel entirely safe.

Thankfully, he had an advantage. But there was no need to give that away yet.

"You were wrong about some things, you know." 'Steve' smiled, shaking his head in an oddly affectionate manner.

"Oh?"

He's _beyond _stupid if he thinks Sherlock will rise to that.

"River, she's actually their daughter."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disbelief. What on earth was he trying to do? An obviously intelligent man, we he trying to purposely irritate him? Or was he genuinely mad?

Very serious tone, no indication of lying. Maybe trying to tell him _something_. Marriage falling apart, his or theirs, going into the child's death….

All irrelevant, but perhaps he'd be more likely to explain what was in that Police Box…

"The forty year old is the daughter of people who haven't passed thirty?"

'Steve' winced, as if the thought for some reason brought him pain. Genuine pain, no acting. Getting somewhere, somewhere metaphorical possible.

"There was a bit of a mix up. I was," another wince, "Very stupid. Painfully stupid, in fact."

"Oh so you were there now, were you?" Sherlock snapped, annoyed at the nonsense the man was spouting. Gave no outward indication of drug use…

This was ridiculous. Shouldn't humour him, just get to the box. His 'TARDIS'.

"Well yes, just after. I so very nearly got her back…" he looked off into the distance, contemplative. Also genuine.

"And," don't rise to it, play along, keep tone light, we're getting to some sort of cryptic point, "The neglect from her parents then? Those two aren't capable of neglect, they worry too much."

Steve's attitude changed abruptly to defensive, and he stared at Sherlock intensely. He was furious, Sherlock realised. _Genuinely_ furious. No acting. Unless he was very, very wrong which he very, very doubted.

"Well it's _a bit_ difficult when you're _nine_!" he barked.

Sherlock wanted to scream. Incoherent babbling of a mad man. The worst of all the babbling.

Her grabbed his shoulder and shook him violently, looking him dead in the eyes. The door was to their left, the desks to their right. The room was eight foot by six foot. But still, Sherlock didn't like the idea of him wandering around too freely.

"Enough, the box now. Explain.

'Steve' was smiling again.

"I expect you to doubt, Sherlock, what you saw. But you know what you saw. 'It's bigger on the inside'"

His eyes gleamed, as if he had uttered those words thousands of times before. And it was true, that's what Sherlock had seen. Except, it could not possibly be true.

"A trick!" Sherlock spat, "And if I can get into it I can prove it."

"You need a set of keys for that."

"Like this set of keys?"

Time to unveil the advantage. The cylindrical, heavy device which until recently had resided in the inner pocket of Steve's jacket.

As he predicted, 'Steve's' eyes widened.

"Oh no, no, no, non, nein, no!" 'Steve' shook his head, "Sherlock put that down. No, don't! Give it here! How did you-"

"Easily, "Sherlock sighed, examining the device in as much detail as he could under the light of the static, "What does it do, exactly?"

This was said more to himself than to 'Steve'.

"I saw you, very quickly, flash this and shut the door of that 'TARDIS'. I also saw you use it to undo your handcuffs… But how does it work?"

"Well basically…"

"I'm not talking to you! Shut up!"

The radio at Sherlock's belt, there by John's insistence, crackled into life.

"Holmes? Holmes?" a pause, "Sherlock, pick up the fucking radio now!"

"Yes, John?" he answered distractedly, still focussing on the device.

No response.

"John?"

"I… I don't know. Sherlock I've forgo-"

Sherlock turned it off and threw it over his shoulder, where it crashed into a file cabinet.

"He forgot!" Sherlock harrumphed, scrambling around the desk, moving papers and mugs every which way.

"What was that about?" 'Steve' asked, massaging his wrists.

"If only I… How did you get out of handcuffs?"

'Steve' froze, stuck a hand into his left coat pocket and produced the device/'screwdriver'.

"You… You gave me back my screwdriver. Why did you do that?"

"I most certainly did not!" Sherlock yelled, suddenly doubtful. He noticed he was holding a pen now.

"Screwdriver?" he added incredulously with an exasperated expression, and began rummaging around the desk again.

"A sonic screwdriver, it works in many ways. Not on wood though, it doesn't do wood. Well, actually that's a funny story-"

"Shut up! I'm interrogating you! Now, why have you got a tally on your arm?"

That cut the 'Doctor off any giddy rambles. Very abruptly. Curiously abruptly.

But Sherlock suddenly noticed the knife in his own hands. The hard plastic food-court disposable knife he had been trying to find. Why had he been trying to find…

The Doctor gulped, cutting off his thoughts. A thin film of sweat coated his forehead.

"Sherlock, we need to turn around."

"We need to turn around?"

"To the left Sherlock, to the left."

"Oh would you shut up!" Sherlock barked. He was shaking, the after effects of fear caused by adrenaline. Nothing made sense, and this worried him. It worried him beyond belief. Fear coiled like a worm in his gut and worked its way to his throat. But he would not move. No, not before getting answers.

No matter how many objects he picked up for no reason, he was getting answers.

"The box screwdriver, now." He swallowed, shaking his head violently, outstretching his free hand/

"_Sherlock_!" Steve bellowed his name so loudly it left tinnitus, "Listen, stop it and listen."

For once in his life, Sherlock stopped it and Sherlock listened.

"You saw an_ impossible_ room. I am an_ impossible_ man. River is their daughter. They had her four years ago, raised her as children fifteen years ago and _met_ her three years ago. I am over a thousand years old, I travel space and time in that_ impossible_ room, I am alien, I am a Timelord. I've been to the end of the universe _and_ I've restarted it. They are my friends, she is my wife. Amy remembers extraordinary things. Rory was a Roman soldier. River was made within the time vortex, she is part Timelord, she is _very_ good with a good with a gun. And I _know_ you do not believe this and that you will never want to accept this and that you think I'm mad, that you think this is a _fairy-tale_, a series of _ramblings_, a _collection_ of nonsense and I. DON'T. CARE. The only thing that matters is that _you are going to turn left this instant and be bloody happy you did so_!"

And Sherlock turned left.

And Sherlock gulped at what he saw, and began to tremor. His pupils dilated, his breath became laboured and his wits failed him. He had never felt fear like this before in his life.

And in this he could only manage three stumbled and difficult words.

"Alien, you say?"


End file.
